


Mutually Assured Distraction

by merle_p



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 1960s, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Cold War, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Europe, F/M, Getting Together, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mental Instability, Obscure Weaponry, Oranges, Serious Injuries, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4671050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why didn't you, then?" she asks, a reasonable question, and he turns his face towards the window, watches the Valencian night rush by. </p><p>"I was distracted," he says. </p><p>She is quiet for a while. </p><p>"Distracted by whom?" she finally asks, and he keeps his eyes on the window. </p><p>"I do not know." It is a lie, and he is sure that Gaby knows it is a lie, but she is kind enough not to point that out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutually Assured Distraction

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [分心同由](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4700435) by [WendyShad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyShad/pseuds/WendyShad)



Somewhere in Fascist Francoist Spain, on a train between Barcelona and Valencia, Gaby starts sleeping with Waverly. 

Illya can tell, of course. He could tell even if they were trying harder to hide it – which they are not – and when he sees her smudged lipstick and his crooked tie and puts two and two together (which makes four, in the USSR as in the GDR as in the UK), he admits (if only to himself) that he is appropriately surprised. 

The real surprise, however, after he gives himself some time to think, his face hidden behind a Spanish newspaper he cannot read, is how much he is really not surprised. It's true, he did not see it coming, but in hindsight, he realizes that he should have known. Deciphering social cues may not be his greatest strength – especially when it doesn't relate to a mission – but he is not dumb, and the signs were all there for him to read. German women, and he likes that about them, are not that shy about saying what they want. They don't care for the game of playing hard to get, see it as a waste of time when they could already be busy getting the object of their desire out of their clothes, and Gaby may be an exception to the rule in many ways, but not so much in this. She's been clear about what she wants since their aborted kiss in a hotel room in Italy, has only been waiting for him to catch up – but despite the ring he told her to keep, despite all the almost and nearly and just-about-to moments they've shared, he has failed to follow through. In Munich, a couple of weeks ago, she began to give up on him, and he cannot fault her for choosing to seek what she wants somewhere else. Truth is, he's been distracted, and even if he isn't strictly comfortable with the implications of the why and the how, he is man enough not to let her think that somehow his reluctance was her fault. 

So when he finally catches her gaze (a bit worried for her own sake, a bit concerned for his) over the top of the newspaper, he gives her the hint of a reassuring smile (which Napoleon, he thinks somewhat self-consciously, would undoubtedly tell him looks like he's got a toothache to the rest of the world) and only allows himself a moment of wistfulness – because despite everything, she is beautiful, strong, and smart, and they were fake-engaged for a while, after all. 

But he doesn't begrudge her what little bits of happiness she can get, and besides, she and Waverly make sense in a rational and pragmatic way – another thing he's found German women to be good at. They are working for the same side, after all, and thus are far less likely to be ordered to kill each other for the sake of a mission, which Illya thinks is as solid a basis for a relationship between spies as it gets. Not like Gaby and him, who are technically fighting on opposite sides of the Cold War, not like him and – 

He blinks when he realizes that Napoleon is shooting him odd looks from behind his book, and drops his gaze back to the pages of his paper, doing his best to trick himself into believing that his attention is fully occupied by the article on page 3. Never mind that he still doesn't understand a word of Spanish. 

 

Of course, Illya knows that if he noticed the recent changes in their interpersonal team dynamics, it would not take Napoleon Solo long to notice, too. He is prepared for that. He expects nothing less from his partner. 

What he doesn't expect is for Napoleon to bring it up while they are busy breaking into the residence of one of Franco's generals around 2am under the light of a full moon. He thinks, somewhat disgruntledly, that Napoleon's timing leaves something to be desired. 

"So," Napoleon says conversationally as he disengages the alarm system – two wires, two small cuts, and done – and then slips back into his glove so as not to leave finger prints behind as he begins to pry open the ground floor window in the back of the house. 

"Gaby and Waverly, huh? That's a bit of a surprise."

"Not to me," Illya says steadily as he works on the other side of the window, forcing himself to pay attention to the hinge and not to the smell of the body next to him, sweat and bourbon and annoyingly heavy cologne. 

Napoleon pauses in his work just long enough to throw him an unreadable look. 

"No?" he says, and he sounds – curious, calculating, perhaps something else as well. "So you are totally fine with your girl doing the horizontal tango with our team leader, then?"

Illya clenches his teeth and lifts the window frame out of the hinges. "She is her own woman," he says and sets the window to the side, carefully, quietly. He forces himself to release his death grip on the frame and straightens, only to come face to face with Napoleon, who is standing far too close, and whose expression seems torn between amused delight and deadly, brimming tension. 

"So this is what, an open relationship?" the American asks, one eyebrow raised. "How very … communist of you."

Illya shakes his head and is careful not to touch Napoleon as he steps around him to shine a flashlight into the building. 

"Is no relationship at all," he says, and then, because it needs to be said: "This is not good time for this conversation."

"Yeah?" Napoleon says, leaning next to him over the wall into the empty space that used to be a window, and he sounds so smug, Illya feels his hand tighten around the flashlight with the sudden urge to punch him in the face. "Seems to me that it's the perfect time for this conversation, what with you and me –" 

He pauses abruptly, straightens attentively, and Illya strains to listen for whatever it is that Napoleon's heard. For a moment, there is nothing, only the tiny huffs of Solo's exhales, only the sound of his own labored breathing. Then, the dog barks again, considerably closer this time, and their eyes meet in the space lit up by the flashlight, resigned understanding mirrored in each other's gaze. 

"Never mind," Napoleon says, with a tiny shrug, and starts to heave himself up into the window opening. "Let's postpone this conversation for later."

 

The thing is: Under any other circumstances, Illya would have been more than content with Napoleon's willingness to drop the issue for the time being. But as the fog of hot-red rage starts to lift from his eyes some undetermined hours later, he begins to suspect that a discussion about Gaby's choice in partner might have been less revealing than the situation he currently finds himself in, as embarrassing and unpleasant as the prospect of a conversation was at the time. 

He looks down at the man crumpled at his feet, life-less and still, his neck bent at an impossible angle. Illya's mind is still clouded and hazy, his memory vague; but his hands vividly remember the feeling of a fragile throat under his fingers, the panicked fluttering of a pulse, the sickening satisfaction as the larynx collapsed under the pressure of his thumb. 

He killed a man and a dog with his bare hands, he thinks distantly, but the blood on his hands is not theirs. He lifts his fingers to his face, watches them tremble, studies the smears of red against his fair skin, the dark blood starting to crust in the beds of his nails, in the creases of his palms. He suddenly remembers an old woman in Moscow, in the icy darkness of a long-gone Russian winter, offering to read his palm, and he imagines her tracing the lines of his hands, wonders what she would have to say about another man's blood pooling in the heart line of his right palm. 

A faint cough draws him back into reality, to the present of the humid-hot Spanish night, the study he finds himself standing in, desk askew and papers scattered over the floor. 

He falls to his knees without thinking, ending up on eye level with Napoleon, who is slumped against the wall, a hand pressed against his side where the blade of the bayonet has gone in. 

He reaches out to push Solo's hand away, to push up his shirt, get a good look at the entrance wound. Napoleon flinches and hisses under his touch, and Illya's eyes snap up. In the light of the moon falling into the room, and the errant flashlight under the desk two feet away, Napoleon's eyes are wide and dark, his pupils blown with adrenaline, pain and, perhaps, a trace of fear. 

Illya goes very still. "You are afraid of me?" he says and doesn't like the sound of his voice, thick and raw and not quite steady. 

Napoleon stares at him, and for once, he's got no smart answer ready, although if it's because of the blood loss or something else, Illya doesn't know. The American opens and closes his mouth, once, twice, then suddenly moves his head, more a loll than a shake, but the sentiment is clear. 

"No," he rasps. "No, you don't scare me, Kuryakin," he says, and he sounds almost amused, but honest for a change, even if there is still something else in his voice that Illya cannot place. Then he shakes his head again, more firmly this time, and when he looks back up, his eyes are focused. 

"I _am_ a bit worried about bleeding out here if we don't manage to do something about that hole in my ribs," he says lightly, and finally moves his hand. Blood wells up from underneath his palm, and Illya quickly presses his own hand against the wound to keep it from flowing. 

"Christ," Napoleon curses, but he doesn't flinch from Illya's touch again. "Who the hell uses a bayonet these days anyway? Damn those fascists and their obsession with obscure weaponry."

Illya finds himself huffing a laughter without meaning to. Maybe it's because Napoleon's jokes mean he might not be quite as close to death as Illya has feared. Maybe it's because for all their disagreements over national politics, they can always rely on Napoleon agreeing with him on the fascists. Maybe it's because of the way Napoleon's face lights up briefly at the sound, the way it always does when he realizes he's come close to making Illya laugh. 

"Let me see," he says, voice back to steady already, and Napoleon groans assent and lets him push his blood-soaked shirt up after all. 

Napoleon's stomach is slick with blood, and Illya growls in frustration. He'd need to remove his hand to get his shirt off, and that's not an option right now, so he tugs hard on the hem of the shirt with his free hand until he hears the fabric tear, ending up with a large piece of cloth that he uses to mop up the blood from Napoleon's skin, the ruined remains of his shirt flapping uselessly against his chest. When he finally manages to get a look at the actual wound, he feels his heart jolt in relief. It's a nasty cut for sure, but it's not as deep as he'd thought. The blade, miraculously, must have bounced off of Napoleon's ribs instead of sliding in between, and he is pretty certain that no internal organs were hit. Still, the man is losing far too much blood, and if they don't get him sewed up quickly, it won't matter much whether his lungs are functional or not. 

In the end, he fabricates a make-shift bandage from their ruined shirts, leaving them both sweating and vulnerable in white, blood-stained undershirts. He is not good at this – has always been better at destroying than at healing, whether he likes it or not – but he manages to get the fabric tightened across Napoleon's ribcage, not stopping the flow of blood, but containing it at least. He slides an arm under Napoleon's left shoulder, half-drags, half-carries him back through the window and around the house that remains mercifully dark and quiet. He pushes against the front metal gate and is about to send a silent thank-you to all the deities he does not believe in, when they are caught by the headlights of a car idling in front of the building. 

His heart plummets, and he tries to think of a way out of this that does not end with both of them dead (there is no time now to question the readiness with which he takes his own death into account, if it will help save Solo, a thought to be stored away for later consideration), but before he can make a decision, the headlights switch off again, plunging the street into darkness, and a quiet whistle almost makes his knees buckle in relief. 

Napoleon is slumped against his side, barely half-conscious now, and Illya shift his weight into his left leg, bends in the knee, and hoists the other man up in one fluid movement, carrying him to the car like his bride on their wedding night (although Illya thinks that if he would have ever imagined his wedding night, his bride would not have been bleeding all over his chest, and they both would have been considerably better dressed). He wrenches the backdoor open and pushes Napoleon inside, as mindful as possible of his injuries, then climbs in behind him, trying to find space to store his long legs in the backseat of the tiny Fiat 500. 

"Go," he says, and in the driver's seat, Gaby turns her head, takes one look at the state they are in, and hits the gas pedal before he can even fully close the door. 

She takes them on a wild ride through the back alleys of Valencia, and Illya is exhausted enough to lean his head against the backrest of his seat and trust her to know where they are going. 

"Thank you," he finally says when she stops at a red light, because some things need to be said, and she flashes him a quick smile in the rear mirror. 

"Anytime," she says lightly, and then, disgruntled and in German: " _Vollidioten, alle beide!_ ", as if she thinks he can't understand her that way. 

"How did that happen?" she asks, switching back to English, letting the concern show in her voice now that they are in relative safety. 

Illya shrugs, even though he knows Gaby won't be able to see it. How do these things ever happen? It appears like a rather philosophical problem right now. He glances to his side, where Napoleon is slumped against the inside of the door, eyes closed and face grey, his breath shallow and rough. 

"He got stabbed with a bayonet," he finally says, because that at least seems like relevant information. 

"Huh," Gaby says, sounding horrified and morbidly fascinated at the same time. "Who the hell uses bayonets anymore these days?"

He doesn't have an answer for Gaby, just as he didn't have an answer for Napoleon either. 

"I should have known that you are British spy," he says instead, and while Gaby keeps driving smoothly, he can see her shoulders flinch slightly at his words. It's something he's been thinking about before, but not something he's been meaning to say, and he isn't sure what makes him bring it up now. Perhaps nothing more than this strange, desperate need to fill the silence.

"Oh yeah?" Gaby says, and she's already overcome her surprise, mostly curious now and intrigued. "How's that?"

"Your English was too good," he says, and when he tilts his head just so, he can see her smile to herself in the mirror. 

"What do you mean?" she asks, as if she doesn't know what he's getting at, as if she needs him to spell it out. 

"Children in the GDR learn Russian in school, not English," he says. "A mechanic in East Germany would not speak English like you do. Of course," he says a bit smugly, "the cowboy would not have noticed. Americans think that everyone in the world should speak English, after all. But I should have known when we first spoke."

"Why didn't you, then?" she asks, a reasonable question, and he turns his face towards the window, watches the Valencian night rush by. 

"I was distracted," he says. 

She is quiet for a while. 

"Distracted by whom?" she finally asks, and he keeps his eyes on the window. 

"I do not know." It is a lie, and he is sure that Gaby knows it is a lie, but she is kind enough not to point that out. 

"Oh, Illya," she says instead, pitying and a bit sad, and Illya is silent and stares out the window, and then they drive around a corner and Illya has to lean over and put two fingers on Napoleon's wrist, just to make sure he is still breathing. 

 

They leave Napoleon with a contact of Waverly's in a small-town hospital outside of Valencia, and then keep heading straight for Madrid just as the sun rises over the horizon. They are not exactly happy about it, but the disastrous break-in had gained them the plans they had been looking for, which means there is still work to be done, a mission to complete. Waverly wouldn't let them switch cars, even in the face of Gaby's best impression of the doe-eyed pleading heroine, and so they are stuck with the Fiat, which Gaby is convinced will fall apart halfway on the way to Madrid, which does not have enough leg space to stow Illya's entire body, and which still has blood stains on the backseat, covered flimsily under an annoyingly cheerful multi-colored quilt. 

After some initial cursing in German about the car (" _Scheißauto_ ") and her new boyfriend (" _Scheißkerl_ ") respectively, Gaby decides to make the best of it: she plays the radio and sings along in made-up Spanish, stops the car along the way to buy oranges from a cart a the side of the road (" _Muchas gracias, Senor_ "), and makes Illya peel fruit for the rest of the way, one slice for her, one for him. He finds that the repetitive task soothes him, an almost meditative rhythm, and in the end, he thinks that the car ride will be remembered as a respite. 

"He will be fine, you know," Gaby says, right when his pulse eventually returns to normal after two and a half hours in the passenger seat, as if she's been waiting for it, waiting for the moment he is too relaxed to bristle, the moment where even he has to realize that throwing a tantrum would only be embarrassing, with his knees crammed against the narrow dashboard and orange juice dripping over his fingers. 

He still gives her an unimpressed stare, to show that he can see through her easily enough. 

"You should make your lover buy you something expensive to make up for the car," he says casually, as if he isn't getting back at her for her comment. 

"If you were my woman, I would buy you something very beautiful," he adds thoughtfully, "but do you think Waverly is the man to remember?"

She rolls her eyes at him, annoyed, but suddenly starts to giggle helplessly. She moves a hand from the wheel to punch him in the shoulder, slightly, then leaves her fist where it is, resting lightly against his biceps. 

"You are far too attached to worldly goods, comrade," she drawls, "don't you know that the ideal socialist woman doesn't care for luxury?"

He shrugs. "If that is the case, you can give me back my ring," he says, and she pulls her hand back quickly. 

"No, _nyet_ , _kommt nicht in Frage_ ," she snaps, and then dissolves into giggles again, and Illya smiles as he picks up another orange. 

 

Napoleon catches up with them two weeks later in Switzerland. No one tells them that he's coming, and so when Illya returns to his hotel suite in Bern after a rather uneventful surveillance attempt and realizes that there is someone in the room with him, he's got his gun out and almost blows off the intruder's head before he realizes what's going on. 

"Hey there," Napoleon says from the loveseat, where he is lounging with a glass of what is certainly extremely expensive liquor. He looks a bit wary, as if he isn't certain that Illya won't shoot him even after recognizing him, and only when Illya grunts and pushes his gun back into the holster does he fully relax against the cushions again. 

"Nice room," he says, raising his glass to gesture at his surroundings. Illya shrugs and doesn't quite look at him as he takes off his jacket and holster, then moves toward the bar. 

"It's adequate," he says and pours himself a finger of Cointreau. He never used to drink on the job, but that was before he met Napoleon Solo. He finds that it calms him, these days, although more importantly, it gives him something to do when he wants to avoid looking at the other man. 

Of course, he can't put it off forever, so eventually he turns around and stares at the American stretched out on his couch, watching him with a mix of alertness and amusement. 

"So you did not die," Illya says dryly, and Napoleon chuckles quietly and motions for him to join him in the seating area, again using his tumbler to direct. 

"No," he says, and doesn't take his eyes from Illya as he lowers himself into one of the easy chairs, as far away from Napoleon as he can. 

"No, I was nursed back to health by beautiful Francoist nurses, surrounded by orange trees and pure-bred horses. It was actually quite idyllic." He pauses and navigates himself into a seated position, and Illya notices that he moves much more slowly than he usually would, still favoring his left. 

"Of course," Napoleon continues, and his voice is still casual, but there is a serious undertone that makes Illya's hair stand on end. "I would probably be buried in an unmarked grave surrounded by horses and orange trees if you hadn't saved my skin back at the general's mansion."

Illya shrugs and takes a sip from his drink. He remembers too late what he's drinking, and after Napoleon's words, the orange-flavored liquor leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

"As you have saved me many times before," he says expressionlessly. "I don't think there is a point in counting anymore."

"Yeah, see, and that's where I think you are wrong," Napoleon shrugs, with an air of nonchalance to cover the tension that Illya can see settling in between his shoulder blades. "I quite like keeping score. Of course," he says and leans forward, elbows on his knees, "I understand that it might be difficult for you to keep track, seeing as how I'm such a distraction to you."

His hand around the glass starts to shake before Illya's brain even fully catches up with the words. Then it hits him, what Napoleon is referring to, and he feels his face heat up in utter shame and humiliation, even as he forces his body into stillness, not allowing himself to give into the instinct of fight-or-flight. His body has failed him in this enough as it is. He is not going to let it fail him now. 

"How did you –" he starts, and for a brief, bitter moment, he thinks that Gaby must have told Napoleon, and the sense of betrayal is a cold blade in his heart. Then his mind catches on, and he understands that no, Gaby did not need to say anything at all. "You were not really unconscious in the car," he states, with certainty, and he is surprised his voice is so firm, even as the words fall apart like ash and soot in his mouth. 

"Eh," Napoleon makes lightly, moving his free hand in a so-so gesture. "Somewhere in between, I think. I did overhear some of your conversation, though," he adds, and now his voice is serious, almost gentle even, and Illya thinks that Napoleon's pity might be worse than all the mockery and disdain in the world. 

"I'm not –" he protests, and he has to set down his drink so that he can clench his hands into fists, watches them tremble against his thighs. "I don't –" 

"Hey, hey," Napoleon says gently, and he sounds like he is talking to a spooked horse, and that is so ridiculous that Illya wants to laugh. Or cry, or fight, or run – 

"Hey," Napoleon says again, much closer now, and Illya realizes that he must have walked around the coffee table and is now crouching next to his chair, hands on the armrest to keep his balance, fingers close to Illya's leg, far too close. 

"So, Gaby and Waverly," Napoleon says, and the non-sequitur jolts Illya out of his stupor, has him stare down at Napoleon with bemusement. 

"What?" he says, shaking his head in confusion. 

Napoleon shrugs, as well as he can in the awkward position he's in. "We never got around to finish that conversation," he says, and even as he's talking, his left hand shifts on the upholstery. Illya wants to move backwards, but he is trapped, there is no way for him to get out of this chair without giving away far too much, and so he stays where he is, and watches, hypnotized, as Napoleon's fingers wander across the armrest like they are taking a stroll in the park. 

"I told you," Illya chokes out finally, "Gaby and I aren't –" 

He isn't even sure what he's going to say, but Napoleon nods as if he understands perfectly. 

"Yes," he says quietly, "I get that now."

He reaches out, finally, wraps his hand around Illya's fist, which is clenched so tightly that the knuckles are turning white, tightly enough that Illya thinks his fingernails might have drawn blood where they are carving into his palm. Napoleon lets his hand rest there for a moment, a warm weight against the glacier of Illya's fist. Then he drags Illya's hand up slowly, gently, and Illya thinks he should pull away, should end this farce, but it's all he can do not to fall apart completely, so he sits, and trembles, and watches Napoleon cradle his fist in one careful, steady hand. 

Napoleon looks up at him then, and he is smiling, but there is some hesitancy in his eyes, as if he isn't sure what Illya is going to do, and then he leans in and presses a kiss against Illya's knuckles. The gesture is so overdetermined that Illya's mind can't make sense of it, a parody of the formal hand-kiss as much as an absolution of Illya's violent nature, and above all, there is the pure sensation of it, soft lips against steel-hard bone, hot air against the ice of Illya's skin. 

Illya exhales, a sharp, painful rush of air, his fist unclenching almost against his will, and Napoleon, always ready to take a mile when given an inch, grasps the opportunity to lace their fingers together, looks up at him, and smiles. 

"For full disclosure," he says, running his thumb over the back of Illya's hand. "I find you pretty distracting myself."

 

Later, after some undetermined time has passed, for once in a soft blur of dizziness rather than the red veil of rage, Illya finds himself kneeling at the foot of his bed, at Napoleon's feet for a change, and reverently unbuttons Napoleon's shirt with a single-minded intensity that makes Napoleon fidget. He doesn't move away though, lets Illya complete his exploration, lets him slip the shirt back over his shoulders and trace the angry-red cut on his side with careful hands. 

Under Illya's touch, Napoleon shivers and hisses, almost like he did back in that study in Spain, and yet completely different somehow, and he doesn't stop Illya from prodding and pushing, even though it must hurt, doesn't stop Illya when he leans in and drags his mouth over the still-healing wound, his tongue dragging against the sturdy surgical thread. 

Illya can feel Napoleon's pulse against his lips, fast and hard, and somehow, the steady throb of his blood convinces him that Napoleon is alive at last. He moves back a little, only enough to get his hands between them so that he can push Napoleon onto his back, and the other man goes easily, melting against the soft, silken covers of the hotel bed. Illya gets to his feet and climbs after him, settling next to him on the mattress so that they are face to face, chest to chest, only inches of space between them. 

He knows if he moves forward just a tiny bit, he will be able to feel the hard length of an erection pressing against his own, and the thought sends a wave of heat flowing through his body. For now, though, he is content to stay and look. 

Napoleon is not quite as patient, raising a hand to push the hair from Illya's forehead, then trailing down the side of his face, his thumb resting for a moment against the scar running from the corner of Illya's eye to his temple. 

"You don't scare me, Kuryakin," he says, and he sounds so serious, but also amused, by the mere thought or by himself, Illya doesn't know. 

"So what are you scared of, cowboy?" Illya asks, and Napoleon drops his hand, moving it back to rest against his ribs, just above the stab wound in his side. 

"Of the things you would do to save me," he says quietly, and then, as Illya stares, he reaches out again, resting his index finger against the corner of Illya's mouth. 

"The things I would do to save you."

Illya draws a shaky breath, as much a reaction to Napoleons's touch as to his words. He thinks of governments and national secrets, of nuclear weapons and kill orders, a world in fragile balance, and it feels for a moment that crossing this line, these four inches of Swiss mattress, four inches of neutral ground, might make everything around them collapse, might make the balance tilt in one direction, unstoppably. 

"It is a dangerous world," he says finally, reaching out, because in the end, he's never had a choice. 

Napoleon laughs, relieved, and falls into him, and for the next hour or two, the balance of power is suspended in their own stubborn defiance of gravity.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Взаимное гарантированное отвлечение](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7734052) by [casmund](https://archiveofourown.org/users/casmund/pseuds/casmund)




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